


Crossed

by illwick



Series: Unwind [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bondage, Bottom!Sherlock, Comeplay, Dirty Pictures, Dirty Talk, Dom!John, Dry Humping, Edgeplay, Exhibitionism, Frottage, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Intercrural Sex, Kink Negotiation, Light Angst, Light BDSM, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Safe Sane and Consensual, Unsafe Sex, Voyeurism, cab sex, cross-dressing, sub!Sherlock, top!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-29
Updated: 2017-08-15
Packaged: 2018-12-08 14:11:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11648190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illwick/pseuds/illwick
Summary: When a case dredges up reminders of Sherlock's past, John may get more than he bargained for.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as a smutty one-shot but seemed to lack context.... so it quickly evolved into a full-blown case-fic (with plenty of porny bits throughout).
> 
> Please heed the tags: There are brief mentions of past drug abuse, themes of addiction, and unsafe sex--nothing more explicit than anything else in this series, but please be aware.

It's not so much the _obliviousness_ that kills him, it's the raging _incompetence._ By the time Lestrade texts Sherlock to bring him in on the case, Sherlock's already been following the headlines in the papers for weeks. Serial killer--obvious-- three victims so far (and a mere three days from a fourth, if the pattern held), distinctive M.O., unusually flamboyant signature; the case had had Sherlock's name written all over it from the start.

But Lestrade had been conservative with his requests for help since their falling out a few weeks back (Sherlock had correctly ID'ed a perp but Lestrade and the Yard had believed the perp's seemingly iron-clad alibi, leading to a nasty confrontation and a near loss of innocent lives), so it's clearly under duress that Sherlock receives his text.

INCOMING TEXT FROM: G Lestrade  
<8 August 04:18> There's been another one. Will you come?

SH  
<04:22> Perhaps. I'm very busy at the moment.

GL  
<04:22> Fuck off, it's 4 in the morning. 

SH  
<04:23> If you're going to be like that, I'll have to politely decline. I've plenty on my plate already.

GL  
<04:23> I'm sorry, alright? Under a lot of pressure here at the mo  
<04:24> Come. We need you.  
<04:26> I need you.  
<04:28> Please.

SH  
<04:36> If you insist.  
<04:36> Send address. Making arrangements for Rosie. We'll be there asap

The body had been found under an overpass in Bethnal Green. Though the forensics team is already on-site, Sherlock's relieved to find they haven't bollocksed things up beyond repair yet. He begins his own survey of the scene, and is pleased to find most of the evidence still intact.

Lestrade rattles off the stats as Sherlock bends over the body. "Victim is one Alexander Whitby, age 38, resident of Knightsbridge. Male, white, apparently a cross-dresser--fits the profile of the previous victims to a T. We're thinking escorts working for the same pimp; somebody appears to be targeting their ring."

Sherlock doesn't even expend the energy to roll his eyes. He simply mutters, "Wrong," and carries on with his deductions.

"Excuse me?"

"They're not escorts. Look at his clothes; the dress is Alexander Wang. Shoes are Gianvito Rossi. His corset and garter belt are bespoke. Stockings are silk. Wig is made from real hair. This outfit alone would have cost four figures."

Lestrade looks undeterred. "Fine. _High-end_ escort, then."

"Phone?"

"Recovered at the scene, in his purse. ID and credit cards were there, but no cash; we're assuming the perp took it, since escorts carry a lot of it."

This time, Sherlock does roll his eyes. "Phone and purse. Now." Lestrade summons them from a frantic-looking underling. "Have they been dusted for prints?"

"Yup. But you don't need to waste your time, the phone's locked. It'll take us a few days to get in, if we can crack it at all."

 _Incompetent, the lot of them._ But Sherlock bites his tongue and re-focuses his attention as John engages Lestrade in some mundane medical questions about the state of the corpse.

The phone has a four-digit passcode. He first tries the victim's birth date, which he procures from his driver's license. No luck. He tries the birth year next; again, it's a no-go. Next, he pulls up the phone's specs from the help screen. The last four digits of the phone's number: 8299. He enters them in.

Bingo.

Christ, people are idiots.

"Got it."

Lestrade and John's heads snap over to him in almost comedic tandem. 

"Are you serious?" Lestrade's face is a mask of incredulousness.

"What, Lestrade, like it's hard? Let's see what we have here." He thumbs through the screens and begins to draw up details. "Definitely not an escort. No texts or calendar events designating a meet-up any time today, nor does he have any scheduling apps that most of the services use. Furthermore, he doesn't have any bitcoin or other cryptocurrency stored on here, so obviously not receiving large sums of money off the books."

"Crypto...what?"

"Cryptocurrency, Lestrade, do keep up. High-end escorts these days don't take payments in cash; it's an unnecessary liability. All the prestigious services use cryptocurrencies now; mainly bitcoin, but there are some others cropping up... but none on his phone. There's no way he was receiving payment under the table. Plus, he works as a VP at Foster & Ewings-- I'm pretty sure a financier at his level doesn't need to be turning tricks in his off time to cover the rent. He's--"

Sherlock stops mid-sentence. There, on the last screen, is an icon of a silver key on a black background, its teeth the shape of three teardrops.

He knows that symbol.

He knows it all too well.

Heart in his throat, he taps the app. It opens to reveal a black screen containing a single QR Code. It's an actual key.

"Sherlock? You alright?" John's at his side, gazing up at him, a wrinkle of concern furrowing his brow.

"I... yes, fine. I need to see the phones of the other victims. Immediately."

Back at the Yard, he's able to unlock the other two phones without trouble (birthdate and home address, respectively--DULL) to test his hypothesis. 

Sure enough, both have the icon with the tiny silver key.

Hypothesis confirmed, Sherlock all but drags John back to the flat, shouting at Lestrade over his shoulder to have the boxes of evidence delivered to them immediately. He needs to analyze everything, re-create the story start to finish, suss out _exactly_ what the perp wanted and how he went about getting it. Then he could set a trap.

But first, he needs to _think._

They arrive back at the flat at sunrise. John blessedly has the day off from his work at the surgery, so he wakes Mrs. Hudson from where she was snoozing on their sofa with the baby monitor on to let her know they were home. John trudges down the hallway to get a few more hours of sleep, calling out over his shoulder for Sherlock to wake him as soon as the evidence arrived.

Sherlock applies two nicotine patches and reclines on the sofa.

He closes his eyes, and remembers.

He remembers the first moment he walked through the imposing black door of the club, a firm hand on his lower back escorting him inside, guiding him up to the marble-topped bar; a pair of fond, warm eyes gazing at him through the shimmering light of the chandeliers; a mouth, smooth and supple, pressed against a whiskey tumbler.

Hector--or shit, was it _Hugo? Hugo,_ that sounded right, but hell, there were clearly big parts of this he'd deleted from his hard drive in a fit of ennui, but he'd just have to make do-- _Hugo_ was one of Mycroft's Uni chums who'd ended up working in the government sector alongside Mycroft straight out of school. He'd had the misfortune of crossing paths with a belligerent, standoffish 21-year-old Sherlock on the grounds of the Holmes family estate one weekend when Mycroft had been home for a visit. Instead of being turned off by Sherlock's demeanour, he'd seemed intrigued, and then frankly _charmed._ When he'd left to return to London, he'd slipped a note beneath a sulking Sherlock's bedroom door with his phone number on it.

Sherlock was still fresh off his second stint in rehab at the time, and his initial response had been to throw the number in the trash. But he hadn't. Instead, he'd pressed it into the pages of his poetry anthology. Just in case.

He'd started back at Uni again that autumn, his parents clearly hoping that this time it would stick. And it did, for a time. He'd studied chemistry. Philosophy. Poetry. He made no friends, and weekends were tedious times; locked out of the labs, sequestered from his favourite library, he passed most of the time in his dormitory studying, though that could only get him so far. So one Friday night, he'd opened up his poetry anthology and picked up the phone.

Hugo invited him to spend Saturday evening with him in the city, no questions asked. Sherlock had taken the first train out on Saturday morning and spent the day walking the streets, calming his nerves, acclimating himself to crowds and socialisation. He wasn't nervous, per se--he'd been a right prat to Hugo the first time he'd met him, and Hugo seemed to find it endearing. So he wasn't particularly concerned about making a good impression.

And he needn't have been. Hugo took him out for dinner at a posh restaurant in Mayfair. He'd had them taste three bottles of wine before finally settling on one, explaining the subtleties of the process to Sherlock who, for all his prodigious energy spent on cataloguing and categorising things, had never seen wine as a means to anything but intoxication.

After dinner, they'd gone back to Hugo's flat and done cocaine and given each other blow jobs in the living room, the giant picture windows offering breathtaking views of the glittering lights of the city. Hugo let him spend the night. He'd never stayed overnight with anyone before. He didn't mind it.

So weekends in the city became standard fare. Hugo was good for him, he reasoned. And sure, they may do a little coke here and there, but he kept it recreational and for weekends only, plus his studies didn't suffer--so what harm was there to it? So long as his parents and Mycroft didn't find out.

It was two and a half months in when Hugo first took Sherlock to the club. "Wear something nice," he'd said on the phone. "They've a fairly strict dress code."

Sherlock had been a bit taken aback--he'd always been a fastidious dresser, so the fact that Hugo even thought he needed to mention the dress code was mildly alarming. 

He'd arrived in the city on Saturday afternoon with his best bespoke suit in tow, filled with a mild trepidation that it would still somehow be all wrong. But when he'd emerged from the bathroom at Hugo's showered and changed, the hungry look on Hugo's face indicated that he looked just fine after all.

They'd taken a taxi to a quiet street in Knightsbridge. The car pulled to a stop in front of an unremarkable black door imprinted with the image of a silver key whose teeth were the shape of three teardrops. Hugo had taken Sherlock's hand as they walked inside.

A doorman stood at attention in front of a long marble staircase. "Good evening, Mr. Aubers."

"Good evening, Franklin." Hugo had pulled a card from his back pocket. Sherlock had just enough time to glimpse it; it was black matte and featured the same silver key insignia as the front door.

Franklin quickly scanned the card and nodded. Hugo's hand found its way to Sherlock's lower back as he guided him up the stairs.

When Hugo had offered to take Sherlock to the _club,_ Sherlock had been entirely uncertain what he'd meant.

"It's a gentleman's club," Hugo had explained patiently.

"The Diogenes? My brother goes there."

Hugo had laughed. "It's like the Diogenes, but it caters to gentlemen with a slightly... different taste. More like ours."

"It's a gay club?"

Again, more laughter. "Something like that."

But this was _nothing_ like that. The room was all tasteful opulence, from the marble bartop to the understated chandeliers to the low-slung sofas and vintage stools. Up until that point, Sherlock had never been to a bar for gay men that wasn't a seedy club or dingy dive; it was clear that this was something else entirely.

The clientele were all impeccably dressed men and women, speaking in low voices over elaborate-looking cocktails.

Sherlock was slightly perplexed. "I thought you said this was a gentlemen's club?"

Hugo nodded. "It is."

And then Sherlock finally _saw._

The smattering of women throughout the room were in fact not women at all, but impossibly convincingly cross-dressed men. Yet there was nothing at all campy or flamboyant about their outfits; nothing resembled the drag queens Sherlock had encountered in his Brixton clubbing days. Their outfits were all beautifully tailored and startlingly _modest,_ oozing a subtle sensuality that took him completely by surprise.

"Can I get you a drink?" Hugo offered.

"Yes. Yes, please."

So Hugo had ordered them whiskey flights and taught Sherlock the details of each one. That night, Hugo took Sherlock back to his flat and asked to fuck him. Sherlock was more than a little drunk and slightly off-kilter from the coke they'd done in the cab, which he'd reasoned may not make for a particularly good first time, so he declined. Instead Hugo took him into the bedroom and slicked between his thighs with lube and thrust against him until he came, then jerked Sherlock off all over his 800-thread-count sheets.

The next two weekends, Hugo was out of town on business.

The Thursday before the third weekend, Hugo called Sherlock and told him that he was engaged. To the daughter of some family friends named Evelyn. She lived in the city during the week but traveled home to see her ailing mother on the weekends. So it would perhaps be best if Sherlock didn't come around anymore.

Sherlock walked out of his dormitory and straight to his dealer's flat.

It was a good three weeks before he couldn't take it anymore. He wanted to see Hugo-- _needed_ to see him. But... he didn't want to confront him. He didn't want to ambush him at his flat, shouting accusations and obscenities like some pathetic lover scorned. He just wanted to observe him, perhaps from a distance. Simply to make some deductions and put the whole sordid ordeal behind him.

So he'd come up with a plan.

Saturday night found him back in the city on the quiet street in Knightsbridge. He'd dressed in the best disguise he could put together on short notice; an A-line black dress with scoop-neck collar (off-the-rack but it fit him like a glove, so who could tell?), black stockings, a pair of slightly clunky heels he'd found at a local resale shop (where the hell was he supposed to find _nice_ shoes in his size? He hadn't the faintest), and a black bob wig he'd procured from a costume shop. He'd even had a go at makeup--to a modest degree of success. He was fairly certain he looked a step below the elegant men at the club, but hell-- it just needed to work once, after all.

He opened the door and stumbled slightly--it was heavier than it looked, and he'd had a little pick-me-up in the taxi on his way from the station, so his arrival in the lobby was slightly less graceful than he'd have liked. But fortunately, he immediately saw a friendly face.

"Good evening, Franklin!"

"...Good evening, Mr... I'm sorry, I don't believe I caught your name?"

"Holmes. Mr. Holmes. I was hear last month with Mr. Aubers."

"Ah yes, of course, good to see you again, sir."

"And you, Franklin. Is Mr. Aubers here yet? I was supposed to be meeting him tonight."

"I'm afraid not, sir."

"No worries, then, I can just go wait at the bar."

"I'm sorry, sir. No guest is admitted without the accompaniment of a member."

"You're joking, right? What am I supposed to do, stand around in this lobby like some two-bit whore?"

"Sir, I must ask you to watch your language. You're welcome to wait for Mr. Aubers outside if you'd like, or perhaps take a walk around the block and get some fresh air."

"Are you MAD? These heels are nearly three inches, I'm barely going to make it up the staircase here. Come on, be a mate. Just let me in."

"Again, sir, I am sorry, but it's not--"

"Franklin, it's fine." Sherlock whirled around to see a tall, roguish-looking man in a pinstripe suit standing behind him. The man smiled. "He's with me."

"Of course, Mr. _(Something? What the Hell Was his Name? Deleted.)._ " The man handed Franklin his card and before he knew it, Sherlock was being escorted up the staircase once more.

Hugo wasn't at the club that night. At least, Sherlock doesn't think he was--he sort of forgot to look for him once he and _Deleted_ got to talking. _Deleted_ bought Sherlock a few drinks and smiled at him as he did his best to flirt in his ridiculous outfit before dragging him off to do lines of coke off the sink in the bathroom. 

Then _Deleted_ suggested they get out of there, and Sherlock couldn't think of a damn reason why not, so he followed him outside and blew him right there in the back of the taxi on their way to _Deleted_ 's flat, _Deleted_ 's fingers tangled in his wig as he thrust brutally into Sherlock's mouth, calling him a _fucking slag_ and _filthy whore_ until he came down his throat.

When the taxi pulled up in front of his flat, _Deleted_ climbed out, handed the driver a wad of cash, and gestured vaguely at Sherlock, who was still in the back seat.

"Take him wherever he needs to go." 

He'd closed the door of the taxi and walked away without saying a word.

The next Saturday, Sherlock was back at the club, his outfit looking slightly worse for the wear, but he reasoned it all came down to confidence as he strode into the lobby.

"Evening, Franklin."

"Lovely to see you, Mr. Holmes."

"'M here to see Hugo. Uh, Mr. Aubers. Or Mr. _Deleted._ Either. Both."

"I'm afraid that's not possible, sir."

"But come on, you recognise me!"

"I do. And let me make this perfectly clear: What you did here last week, we don't tolerate that sort of behaviour in this establishment. If you're looking for that, there are plenty of other places you can go. But this is not one of them."

"Fuck you," Sherlock practically spat out.

A look that he couldn't quite identify passed across Franklin's face. He sighed and pursed his lips, then looked Sherlock squarely in the eye.

When he spoke, his voice was shockingly gentle and kind. "Listen, my boy. What I'm saying to you isn't personal. I know that things can be hard, and confusing. This place is meant to be a refuge from all of that--you can't bring that in here. But if someday you find yourself needing an escape from everything else, we'd welcome your patronage again."

It was the kindest thing anyone had said to him in weeks.

He'd gotten clean again. It wasn't as hard this time; no detox, no rehab, he hadn't gone so far off the rails that he couldn't dial it back. He simply got rid of his stash the minute he got back to his dormitory, and deleted his dealer's phone number from memory. He recommitted himself to his studies. He refused to think of Hugo.

Those were the days before his trust fund was cut off. So after a fair amount of discreet research, one weekend he took the train to the city and made his way to a tailor that catered to a very particular set of clientele.

The next time he arrived at the club, it was in a black Oscar de la Renta dress that dipped to reveal just enough of his clavicles to be alluring. It was concealing a bespoke bustier and garter belt clipped into real silk stockings, which felt dazzlingly luxurious against his legs, along with a pair of black silk panties. On his feet were Louboutins, specially ordered to the same discreet tailor. He'd foregone the wig entirely and most of the makeup; simply the faintest hint of smokey liner, a swipe of mascara, and a dab of the palest pink on his cupid's bow lips.

"Good evening, Franklin."

"...I'm sorry, sir, I... Mr. Holmes is that you?"

"It is. And I'd like to purchase a membership."

For the next six months, he travelled into the city each Saturday night to sit at the bar at the club, nursing a single whiskey neat. Occasionally men would hit on him, but he brushed every one of them off; what he was doing wasn't sexual to him. It was merely the act of becoming someone else for an evening, to escape the demons that plagued him every day.

He doesn't remember exactly where it went wrong that particular time. But something in his personal life shook him off the rails and he went on a bender back at school and landed himself in rehab for the third time in as many years, and his parents had cut off his trust fund for good. His membership at the club had lapsed. By the time he'd emerged from that round of rehab, he'd been eager to leave any links to his past behind, and the club had been a part of all that; he'd never once gone back.

It was all so long ago.

The doorbell rings and he opens his eyes, the sitting room swimming back into focus. The evidence had arrived.

Shaking the memories from the forefront of his mind, he focuses himself, ready to pursue the Work.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A return to form.

"You're sure this is going to work?"

Lestrade's brow furrows in concern as his eyes flick across Sherlock's fastidious notes spread across the kitchen table, scattered amongst photographs of the crime scenes and evidence.

"Beyond a shadow of a doubt. This killer has a particularly strong set of compulsions; the fact he's pulled all three victims from the same location is enough to reveal that; anyone with even a modest sense of self-preservation would know not to return to the same source every time. He's clearly got megalomaniac tendencies, which fortuitously for us, make him easy to bait."

John shakes his head and leans forward from where he'd been slouched in the chair across the table. The harsh fluorescent light makes the bags under his eyes look almost purple in its unforgiving glow. "I'm still not sure about this, Sherlock. How can you be certain he'll go for you? You mentioned there are lots of men who cross-dress at this club."

Sherlock sighs in exasperation. "Have you _seen_ me in a dress?"

John meets his eyes unflinchingly. "No, I haven't, actually."

There's a moment of silent electricity between them. 

Lestrade clears his throat. Sherlock shakes himself out of it. "The point is, I'll be fresh blood and unconnected; he'll read that as a weakness. And the particular method of strangulation he uses is statistically most common in killers who display signs of hypermasculinity; he'll be looking for a conquest, some competition. If I'm being pursued by someone else, he'll see it as a challenge and rise to the occasion."

Lestrade purses his lips. "I suppose, if you're sure."

"You can't be sure." John's tone is curt. He hates the idea of Sherlock offering himself up as bait, and he's continuously making that clear. "We've had no luck getting any intel from anyone inside the club. They won't release member names or information. We haven't been able to interview any potential witnesses. You're going into this completely blind, Sherlock."

Sherlock scoffs. "I've done the research, John. All the evidence you need, it's right here, plain as day, if you'd just _observe..."_

"I've _observed_ plenty, Sherlock, and all I'm seeing is you throwing yourself in harm's way in a completely unfamiliar location with no backup."

"You're my backup."

"Fine, I'm your backup. But this club is a fortress, Sherlock, you have no idea what you're getting us into in there."

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I do."

The silence stretches between the three of them for what feels like an eternity. Finally, Lestrade speaks. "You've... been there before?"

"I have. I've already contacted them to reactivate my membership, and added John as an approved guest."

John is glaring daggers at Sherlock across the table. He pretends not to notice. "I'll arrive an hour before John does to do an initial round of deductions. Once John is there, he'll make a pass at me at the bar. This should attract the attention of our killer, in case I haven't already been able to identify him. Should he make his presence known, I'll direct all of my attentions towards him. When he asks me to leave with him, I'll agree. Once we're in the taxi, I'll text you all our destination, and you can intercept us there, hopefully catching him in the act."

"And if he has a car service instead?" Lestrade looks unconvinced.

"I'll activate the GPS on my phone."

Lestrade sighs. "I don't like it. I don't like it one bit. But I suppose it's the best we've got. I'll go rally the troops."

Sherlock grins. "Excellent. Then I'll see you tonight."

Lestrade offers a tight smile in return. "Tonight." He takes his leave.

Sherlock turns to face John. His stomach drops slightly.

John's eyes are cold and his posture is stiff. He's staring at Sherlock in an impassive, calculating way that makes Sherlock shiver.

"So you were a member at this club?" His voice is low and soft.

"It was a long time ago, John."

John leans back in his chair and crosses his arms. A defensive posture. He's angling for a row. "How long?"

Sherlock is slightly offended by John's incredulity. Who the hell did he think he was to judge Sherlock for his past? "Long enough to not be any of your business."

John's eyebrows raise so high they all but disappear into his hairline. "Not my business? The fact that you used to frequent a _high end sex club_ is _not my business?"_

Sherlock snorts with laughter. He can't help it. How could John be so clueless?

John's face starts to go red. Sherlock realises he'd better explain himself before John loses his temper entirely and really throws everything off track.

"Don't be ridiculous, it's not a _sex club,_ John. It's a _gentlemen's club._ Like the one my brother belongs to. You've been to the Diogenes; it's just like that. Only this one caters to men who happen to be queer. It's nothing to do with sex, it's purely for the networking--a safe space for those in the upper echelons of power who have alternative sexual identities to rub shoulders with those in similar positions."

John looks incredulous. "And shoulders are all that they're rubbing?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes. _"Yes,_ John, for God's sake, not everything's to do with sex. It's merely a discrete place for people to mingle."

"So you never went home with anyone you met there?"

Sherlock goes silent, his amused disposition evaporated by John's question. 

Sherlock hates discussing his sexual past with John. He's told him everything he feels he needs to know: that Sherlock had had a series of negative experiences with his previous partners, mostly due to the influence of drugs and his uncanny ability to only fall for closeted homophobes. This, when combined with his sexually submissive tendencies, had resulted in a long string of toxic relationships, to the point that Sherlock had sworn off sex altogether when he finally left rehab for the last time.

And in the scheme of things, his past wasn't all _that_ sordid. He'd never even had penetrative intercourse before John! And yet here was John "Three Continents" Watson, accusing him of acting the floozy at some depraved club?!

"Irrelevant." He spits the word in John's direction, a gauntlet thrown.

John pushes his chair back from the table and makes his way to the sitting room, where he retrieves his coat before heading for the door.

"Where are you going?"

"Out."

"Out? The operation starts in two hours, John."

"Exactly. I need some air." And with that, he exits, closing the door a little harder than necessary behind him.

Sherlock stands stock still in his wake, attempting to process what had just happened. What had he done wrong? Why was John so upset? His brain whirrs and falters.

But stop, _stop._ Now was not the time for all of this. There was Work to be done, a case to solve, a perp to catch. Their petty domestic could wait until later.

Sherlock mentally reviews the plan in excruciating detail one last time, cementing its place in his mind palace. Process complete, he makes his way down the hall. Time to don his battle armor.

He showers and proceeds to embark on his routine in the comforting steam of the bathroom, towel slung low around his waist. He dries his hair and adds just enough product to soften it into loose, touchable curls. Then he rummages beneath the sink until his hand lands on a familiar black case.

Inside is his makeup and a small bottle of perfume. He applies the makeup with deliberate care; it's been a long time since he's done this, but he finds the process strangely comforting. He'd purchased new products when he'd returned from his exile (the old ones were long past expired, and one never knew when one might need a clever disguise), and he's pleased to find that they feel fresh and light against his skin. He adds a spritz of perfume when he finishes; the palest hint of lavender and musk, deep and alluring.

Satisfied, he makes his way to the bedroom. It was time for the moment of truth.

He reaches into the deepest back corner of his wardrobe until his hand lands on a slim black box. He pulls it out and opens it.

Inside is his bespoke bustier, garter belt, panties, and stockings. They're folded with loving care, still covered in the original tissue paper, a relic of a past life he thought he'd never return to. He'd kept them all, though--again, his line of work consistently necessitated a wide variety of disguises, and it seemed a waste to throw these out; yet the opportunity to use them again hadn't presented itself until tonight.

He pulls the panties on first. They feel cool and luxurious against his skin, and as he stares down at them, he's reminded of the thrill he got the first time he put them on; the hint of deviance, the aura of defiance at the way the hugged every part of him so perfectly... He's beginning to wonder why he'd avoided wearing them again all these years.

The bustier is next. He's pleased to find it still fits; he's more muscular now than he was at 21, but the lacing is forgiving, and it fits him like a glove. The cups are only lightly padded, implying the vaguest hint of curves without being gauche or flamboyant.

The garter belt is his favourite. Intricate black lace done in a geometric pattern instead of the more traditional florals, it's masculine and delicate all at once. He pulls it on effortlessly and follows it with the silk stockings. They're trimmed in matching lace, which he hooks to the belt with the elegant clasps that sit flush against the milky skin of his thighs.

He turns to the mirror to inspect himself.

He looks... good.

There's no hint of coquettishness to the ensemble, no coy insinuations of girlishness or innocence. It feels sober, straightforward, unapologetic. Everything that Sherlock had wanted to be back then. Everything that he strives to be now.

Satisfied, he returns to his wardrobe to pull out a dress and his heels.

Over the years he'd accumulated more dresses, all for disguises used in various cases. The one he selects for tonight is his absolute favourite; a sombre black Tom Ford that reminds him of the suits he dons most days. Wearing it makes him feel powerful, capable, guarded and confident. Untouchable. He's aware that it hugs his curves in a way that strikes observers as positively alluring, but to him, it's a shield, impervious and safe.

And the shoes... the shoes are the same ones he bought at 21. He doesn't wear them every time he disguises himself as a woman, only when he needs to appear believably upscale. And the shoes are lovely. They're perfect. They have been since the day he first tried them on. Well-balanced and demure, they compliment his attire perfectly. He slips them on with practiced ease.

He grabs a clutch from the back shelf of his closet and fills it with the essentials, checking the time on his mobile as he tucks it inside. He needs to leave for the club now to keep them on-schedule, but John's still not returned home.

His stomach does a strange flip. Was John backing out on him? Was he really so upset at Sherlock for his perceived past personal transgressions that he would compromise the _Work_ to make a point about it? The thought makes Sherlock's blood boil. He'd thought John was made of thicker stuff. And he'd thought John had his damn priorities in order.

He turns on his heel and marches down the stairs without looking back. John be damned; he was going through with the sting whether he liked it or not. What was it John was always saying? _"There are lives at stake, Sherlock!"_ Yes, John, there were lives at stake, and he sure as hell wasn't going to let them down.

He hails a cab for Knightsbridge.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The operation yields unexpected results.

The weather is overcast and gloomy and the first smatterings of rain are just beginning to fall when the cab pulls up outside the black door. 

Sherlock makes his way inside and is momentarily thrown off to see a young blond man standing at attention beside the staircase instead of Franklin's familiar face. He shakes himself out of it; it'd been more that 15 years since he'd last been here; of course the doorman wouldn't be the same. Even so, it makes him feel slightly off-kilter in a way he wasn't quite expecting.

The young man smiles and nods as he scans the code on Sherlock's phone.

"Welcome back, Mr. Holmes." Sherlock gives him a faint smile and nod before making his way up the stairs.

Despite the passage of time, the room had remained nearly the same. The sofas had been switched out for newer models boasting cleaner lines and a softer palette to keep up with the times, but the sumptuous marble bartop and low-hanging chandeliers remain wholly unaltered. Sherlock makes his way to the bar and orders a whiskey neat. It was time to begin the Work.

His initial round of deductions yields disappointing results. There are no obvious suspects despite the growing crowd, and he finds himself flustered by the constant interruptions of men offering to buy him an unwanted drink. Normally he wore his disguises to blend in; his disguise tonight was worn with the explicit intent of standing out, and the results were throwing him off his game. Not only that, but he has to constantly resist the impulse to check his mobile for texts from John.

He finally gives in to the urge and pulls out his mobile to scroll through his messages. Nothing. Sighing, he resigns himself to more tedium.

And then he feels it: The hairs on the back of his neck stand up, and his cheeks begin to flush. Someone is staring at him. He lifts his gaze to the staircase.

John is standing at the entrance of the room, looking impossibly debonair in a deep blue suit Sherlock recalls helping him pick out for the rehearsal dinner the night before his wedding. It sets off the blue in his eyes to such a degree that Sherlock can see it from all the way across the room, and his silver-blond hair seems to glow in the soft light. He's staring at Sherlock as though he's something to eat.

The room suddenly feels quite hot.

John licks his lips and saunters over to the bar.

He stands casually three stools down from Sherlock, not making eye contact, bantering amicably with the bartender as he orders a drink. Finally-- _finally--_ drink in hand, he turns and leans against the bar, meeting Sherlock's gaze.

John's lips quirk up in a slight smile. "Hello."

Sherlock peers at him through his long lashes. He uncrosses and recrosses his legs. John resolutely does not look down at them. "Hi."

"Come here often?" The line is cheesy but John's grin is sincere, and Sherlock can't help but smile back.

"Is that the best you can do?"

"Tonight? Yes. It's my first time here. I'm afraid I'm a bit out of my depth." John maneuvers gracefully into the stool next to Sherlock's, his actions so smooth Sherlock scarcely registers them. John's eyes flick up to meet Sherlock's, and he holds eye contact a fraction of a second longer that would normally be socially acceptable. "Care to make a stranger feel welcome?"

Sherlock suddenly realises that this is the first time in his life he's seen the _Three-Continents_ side of John Watson in action. He feels disconcertingly like prey cornered at the watering hole. His heart rate picks up exponentially, and he swallows to disguise his nerves. 

"Not sure how much use I'll be. It's my first time here in a long while."

John's eyes flick down to Sherlock's body, taking in his curves and stocking-clad legs, then back up to meet his gaze. "Well then. The blind leading the blind I suppose."

"I'd hardly consider you blind the way you just checked me out, though it seems you think _I_ might be."

John throws back his head and laughs, honest and bright. "Can you blame me? A man would be hard-pressed not to look."

"A man would be hard-pressed not to do a lot of things in the presence of a stranger."

"Well then." John's hand moves slightly to rest on Sherlock's own. "Perhaps we'd best not stay strangers."

It's crossed Sherlock's mind more than once that he and John were an _inevitability._ Despite everything they'd been through-- the confusion and the fear and the separation and the death and everything in between-- the fact that they'd come out alive and had built a beautiful life together was nothing short of a miracle. They compliment each other in every way--from the way John serves as his conductor of light when Sherlock is performing the Work, to the way John sexually dominates Sherlock so beautifully and completely when they're Unwinding in the bedroom--they are two halves of one whole.

It seems to Sherlock that at any time, in any age, in any alternate universe that may exist, they would somehow find each other, they would somehow always _be._

And tonight is no exception. Perfect strangers, they perform a delicate dance, all coy smiles and brief gestures and just the slightest glimpses of animalistic desire. It's so intense that at times Sherlock all but forgets to carry on with his constant scans of the room for potential suspects, but he forces himself to remain as focused as possible under the unrelenting charm of _Three-Continents_ Watson.

Eventually the crowd begins to thin. Sherlock hasn't found a single suspect, and he's undeniably perturbed. John leans in close to him (close enough he can smell his aftershave-- God, it would be so easy to simply turn his head a fraction of an inch and lick that delicious patch of skin on John's neck that Sherlock knows drives him wild but-- _Christ, Holmes, keep your head in the game)_ and murmurs quietly, "Anything?"

Sherlock shakes his head and bows his head so that his lips brush the shell of John's ear. "Nothing. He's not here."

"Maybe try another night?"

"But it makes no sense--his previous pattern indicates that tonight would be the night, it _must_ be."

John takes Sherlock's hand in his and gazes into his eyes. To any unsuspecting observer it would look like he was trying to close the deal, but his words are firm and serious, spoken softly under his breath. "We can try again tomorrow, if you'd like."

Sherlock sighs and shakes his head. "You should go. I'll stay here a while longer. There's a chance he may be more cautious than I accounted for."

John nods and extends his hand. "Give me your mobile."

Sherlock cocks his head.

"Look, if I'm not leaving here with you, the least we should do is make it appear as if I left you with my number. Keep up appearances."

Sherlock nods minutely and hands over his phone. John punches a few buttons and then hands it back to him before leaning into kiss him demurely on the cheek.

Despite himself, Sherlock's heart seems to skip a beat.

"See you soon."

And with that, he's gone. Sherlock watches him fondly as he exits, then turns his attention back to his mobile screen.

John's left him a note.

_Stay safe, you mad berk. I love you._

Smiling to himself, Sherlock returns his attention back to the matter at hand.

An hour later, the club is all but empty, and Sherlock can't squeeze another drop of whiskey from his bone-dry glass. Defeated, he makes his way down the staircase and out the front door, only to find himself staring out into a torrential downpour.

"Need a cab, sir?" It's the blond doorman. He's leaning casually back against the building, a half-smoked cigarette in hand.

Sherlock eyes him up and down. He's in his late 20s, been at this job for a few months at most, and clearly isn't taking it too seriously--there's no way a proper doorman at a gentleman's club would be caught off-duty smoking by the front entrance. Which, Sherlock deduces, mean there are perhaps _other_ aspects of his job he takes none too seriously as well-- such as, perhaps, the confidentiality agreement.

"I'd take a cigarette, first."

The blond man smiles and produces one from his pocket, followed by a light. Sherlock inhales gratefully--he'd be lying if he said he didn't delight a bit when the job _required_ him to smoke in the name of the Work.

The man doesn't speak again; Sherlock figures he's trying not to push his luck, fraternizing with the clientele. He takes another drag and meets the man's eyes.

"So how long have you been working here?"

"A few months. Still a novice. Think the guy before me was here for something like 20 years straight. Don't know how he did it, though-- the clients here tend to be...um... you know."

"Rude twats?" Sherlock offers.

"Yeah." The man lets out a relieved laugh. "I was gonna say 'demanding,' but you've put a finer point on it."

Sherlock gives him his warmest smile. "Well, it's the side effect of privilege, I suppose. All these government wanks and posh bankers and city boys under one roof. Hardly a surprise."

The man shrugs nonchalantly. "Comes with the territory, I suppose."

"Does Lord Paulson still come here? Christ, I remember him from years ago, he was the worst of them..."

The man shakes his head. "Nah, haven't seen him. But Lord Farrington is a real piece of work, let me tell you..."

And from there, it's _easy._ It's so obscenely _easy_ to loosen the man's tongue, keep him talking with merely the most sporadic interjections of affirmation. Before too long, Sherlock has a client list three pages long, including one who is of particular interest-- a banker who... a banker... the person of interest had been a _banker,_ right? It was something to do with...finance, or money, or... numbers, maybe numbers, that might be right...

Sherlock feels himself sway unsteadily on his feet.

"Oy, you alright, mate?"

Sherlock shakes his head. "Yes, I think so. Just...haven't smoked in a while, I'm a bit light-headed."

At least, that's what he wants to say. But the words come out as a muttered jumble, and the next thing he knows, a taxi is pulling up outside the club, and the blond man is helping him into it.

It's fine, he reasons. Whatever is happening is fine, he'll just take the taxi home and--

The blond man climbs into the taxi behind him.

Shit.

_Shit._

He feels himself sinking bonelessly back into the seat as the man rattles off an unfamiliar address to the driver. He tries to open his mouth, but no words will come. The inside of the cab is changing, distorting, taking on a strangely two-dimensional shape like a storybook come to life--

_Hink._

Shit, there'd been _hink_ in that cigarette.

_Hink_ was a street drug that had recently burst onto the underground scene. Sherlock had been studying it extensively as part of his continuing tobacco ash analysis, and he was exceedingly familiar with its long list of potential negative side effects, nearly all of which he's currently experiencing with near-clinical reliability.

_Shit._

He tries to remain calm. The main upside to _hink_ is that, compared to other recreational forms of rohypnol, the effects of _hink_ were relatively brief, lasting only an hour or so. The downside, he realises, is that none of the other victims appear to have survived that long.

Phone. He simply needs to find his mobile and enable the GPS tracking. Easy peasy.

He fumbles clumsily with his clutch.

"Ah ah ah." The blond man takes his clutch and opens it, then pockets his mobile. "I think it's best if I hold onto that for you for now. Keep you from doing something you regret."

Sherlock issues a quiet whine in the back of his throat, willing the cab driver to look back, but his eyes remain resolutely on the road ahead. Probably assumes Sherlock is just another arsehole that partied too hard. Christ.

Eventually the cab slows to a stop, and the blond man loops Sherlock's arm over his shoulder and heaves him bodily from the cab. Sherlock wants to protest, wants to fight, but his legs feel like they're made of jelly and his mouth refuses to form words. He's distantly aware of the fact that it's stopped raining, and pauses for a moment of gratitude that it'll at least preserve the evidence a bit longer. The next thing he knows, they're stumbling down a path leading towards the river. What happens next, Sherlock is fairly certain he knows all too well.

They reach an underpass. The blond man unceremoniously lets go and Sherlock feels his legs go out from under him. He staggers but manages to catch himself against the wall and leans against it, willing himself to remain upright, to fight with what little he has left in him.

The blond man is saying things to him. At him, more like; he's up in Sherlock's face, crowding into his space, attempting to intimidate him. He's vaguely aware that it's some obscene combination of slurs and derogatory terms; internally, Sherlock sighs. It's such a disappointment when their motives were so _ordinary._

Mid-rant, the blond man freezes, eyes wild with rage. "What the FUCK is that sound?"

Sherlock grunts. It's his text alert notification. And it's gone off about 20 times in the last two minutes.

He pulls Sherlock's mobile from his pocket, then stares quizzically at the screen.

"What the hell is _Vatican Cameos?"_

Sherlock hits the deck.

Everything that happens after that is a blur. The next thing Sherlock knows, he's in the back of an ambulance, IV in his arm, the crime scene swimming back into focus. John is at his side, arm around him, looking pale and frightened.

He lifts his head from where it had been resting on John's shoulder. "John."

John smiles at him reassuringly. "Hey, you. Back with us?"

Sherlock nods blearily. "It was _hink._ The drug. In a cigarette."

"Yeah, Greg figured that much out on his own."

"Really?" Sherlock is pleasantly surprised. Lestrade was usually an idiot about these sorts of things.

"Mmmhmm. Apparently not the first case he's had to deal with it. But said you'd be right as rain within the hour."

Sherlock nods and stands up, flexing his limbs experimentally, then pulls out the IV (ignoring John's wince as he does so). "He seems to have been correct by all accounts."

"Glad to hear it."

"How did you find me?"

"I enabled the GPS tracker on your phone when you handed it to me at the club. Knew I couldn't count on you to be arsed to remember."

Sherlock grins. "Well, _Three-Continents_ Watson, it seems you really do have my number after all."

John rolls his eyes but stands up as well. "How are you feeling?"

"Strangely, completely fine. Apparently that's how the drug is supposed to work; a quick drop and a faster rebound, favoured by recreational users. Though I have to say, of all the highs I've had in my life, that one was utter bullshit. Kids these days have _no_ idea what they're doing."

John barks out a laugh just as Lestrade makes an appearance at the back door of the ambulance. "Giggling at my crime scene again?"

"Sorry, Greg, you know nothing gets us sillier than a good serial murder."

"And shock blankets make us giddy."

"Plus all the blinking lights. We're amused by shiny things, really."

"Not to mention rush we get from all the paperwork afterwards."

"For fuck's sake," Lestrade mutters under his breath. "I don't need to be dealing with your fucking Abbott and Costello routine right now. Some of us have actual _work_ to do."

"Fine," Sherlock breezes as he disembarks from the back of the ambulance as gracefully as possible, careful not to twist his ankle as his heels come back into contact with the pavement. "We'll just be on our way, then."

"Like hell you will! I need your official statements."

"Detective Inspector, may I remind you I was just _drugged_ and nearly _murdered?_ I'm obviously in a delicate emotional state, I need to be seen by my doctor immediately."

Lestrade closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. "Fine. _Fine._ But I'm coming 'round at 9 o'clock tomorrow to take your statements. The press is going to have a field day with this, and I need you on record ASAP."

Sherlock doesn't deign to answer before making his way up towards the main road to find a cab, but he hears John shouting a brief affirmation over his shoulder before jogging to catch up with him.

The rain had blessedly held, and it's barely two minutes before they're able to hail a cab. They climb into the backseat and sit side-by-side. John closes the door.

And just like that, everything changes. It's nearly instantaneous, the flick of a switch; one minute it's pure giddiness, the sweet, rushing high from the adrenaline of the case. The next, it's nothing _heat_ and _want_ and raw, clenching _desire._

Sherlock can feel John's gaze on him, relentless and unashamed. His face begins to warm. He's suddenly freshly aware that he's still dressed in his elegant clothes from the club, and if John's initial reaction to them was any indication, their night is far from over.

It's time to _unwind._

He takes a deep breath, and waits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am truly sorry that there has been so much plot and so little porn so far. I assure that the next two chapters will consist entirely of unrepentant filth as a gesture of my goodwill.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Closing the case calls for a little celebration.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY the naughty bits!

He doesn't have to wait long. It's a mere 32 seconds before John's hand is on his knee.

It's a light touch. Innocent. Unassuming. John moves his thumb gently back and forth over the smooth silk of Sherlock's stocking, but his breathing remains calm and measured.

Boring. Sherlock sighs and directs his attention out the window, making sure to expose as much of his neck as possible as he leans his head against the cool glass. It's started raining again, and the city lights splash a streaked mosaic across his field of vision.

An interminable 117 seconds later, John has _still_ not progressed things any further than the hand on Sherlock's knee. The gesture vaguely reminds Sherlock of that of an old married couple on the way home from the theatre.

It's utterly unacceptable.

Without moving his gaze from the window (it's essential he maintains a degree of plausible deniability), he casually extends his legs as if stretching them, the act causing John's hand to slip further up his thigh, beneath the hem of his dress. John's pinky finger brushes past the edge of Sherlock's stocking, to where it meets the clasp of his garter.

John's thumb stops moving.

It's as though all the air has been sucked out of the cab. Sherlock scarcely dares breathe. He keeps his eyes determinedly fixed out the window.

Slowly-- _achingly_ slowly-- John's hand moves further up Sherlock's thigh. His fingers embark on a tentative expedition up the lace border of the stocking, across the soft and sensitive place where lace meets skin, then to the clasp of the garter and higher up still, following the garter's path further and further up Sherlock's leg until John's fingers come to rest on the garter belt.

John lets out a jagged breath.

_Finally._

He's on Sherlock before Sherlock can fully process what's happening, manhandling him none too delicately until in what feels like absolutely no time at all, Sherlock is fully reclined across the back seat, John slotted between his spread legs and beginning to move against him in a way that offers absolutely no question as to what they're up to. His teeth latch firmly into the skin of Sherlock's neck, causing him to arch and utter a wanton moan.

"Oy! The two of ya! There'll be none of that in the back of this cab!"

In an instant, John's teeth and heat are _gone,_ and Sherlock lets out an indignant whimper.

But he should have known better than to think John would be so easily deterred. John fumbles for his wallet and stuffs a wad of cash through the partition without even hesitating.

"50 quid to keep your eyes on the road."

The cabbie lets out an exasperated huff. "Double that if you mess my upholstery."

"Deal."

And with that, John descends upon Sherlock once more, littering his neck with frantic love bites that feel none too gentle. Sherlock delights in envisioning the bruises they'll produce; John seems to be in a reckless mood tonight, marking Sherlock's neck much further up than a shirt or even his scarf would cover. Sherlock moans and wraps his legs tightly around John, who begins to frot against him with vocal enthusiasm.

John's hands feel as frantic as his mouth. It's as if they're everywhere at once; sliding along Sherlock's calves to luxuriate in the supple smoothness of the silk encasing them, up Sherlock's thighs to toy with the garters where they lay flush against his skin, then all of a sudden on his waist and chest, taking in the feminine silhouette that Sherlock has assumed for the evening. Sherlock can do nothing but lay back and let John take his pleasure, panting with desire as John greedily explores his body.

All of a sudden, Sherlock finds himself at the edge of coming. The sensation rushes up on him as if out of nowhere; this is the first time he's ever engaged in sexual activity whilst wearing his silk panties, and the sensation of John grinding their hardnesses together through the silk is shockingly, staggeringly erotic. He issues a quiet yelp and tries to push John up and away, willing him to see the urgency of the situation.

John pulls his hips back slightly but remains hovering over him, gazing down at Sherlock's face imploringly. "What's wrong, sweetheart?"

"About to... about to come..." He feels his cheeks flush, and he knows John can see it even in the dim light of the back of the cab. He averts his eyes, suddenly embarrassed.

He expects John to be sympathetic. He expects John to coddle him. Usually when they're about to start a session, John is breathtakingly indulgent, showering him with praise and catering to his whims until the moment they begin.

But John just cocks his head, his eyes going cold and calculating.

Well _shit._

Seems the session has already started.

John sits back on his heels, crouching to avoid the ceiling of the cab.

"Don't _fucking_ move."

Sherlock is paralyzed, spread out and agonisingly vulnerable before him.

John reaches to the waist of his own trousers and pulls off his belt. Then he reaches down and none-too-gently grabs Sherlock's left wrist, wraps it with the belt, then repeats the action with his right, securing his wrists together. He then grabs the loose end of the belt and uses it to pull Sherlock's arms up over Sherlock's head to pin them firmly to the seat.

He looms down over Sherlock until their noses are a mere inch apart.

When he speaks, his voice is a deadly whisper. "You're about to _come?_ I don't remember giving you permission to _come,_ sweetheart. Did I give you permission?"

Sherlock's cock jerks helplessly in its silken prison. God, John is using his Captain Voice-- Sherlock can feel his cock pulse out a bead of precome, but wills himself to stay in control.

"No, John."

"No, I did not." John slowly lowers his pelvis until their lengths are flush against one another again. He begins to move in long, luxurious slides, merciless and sure. "You won't be coming until I tell you to." He quickens the pace of his thrusts, and Sherlock whines at the stimulation; God, it's _good,_ it's so _good._

_"Please,_ John."

"Please what, love?"

"Want to... need to _come, please."_

"No. You're not going to come in the back of a cab like some--   
_oh--"_ (John seems to have momentarily lost himself in the pleasure of a particularly well-timed thrust,) "...some... some... _harlot."_ (Sherlock internally smirks at John's word choice. John knows that Sherlock doesn't like being called dirty names, so he's diplomatically avoided the more predictable 'slut' or 'slag' or 'whore' in favour of something hilariously more antiquated, which makes Sherlock want to simultaneously giggle and kiss him senseless all at once.)

But Sherlock maintains a straight face and strains slightly against the bindings at his wrists, causing John to force him down with increased fervour.

"You're not going to come in the presence of some stranger. Your pleasure is for me and me alone. Do you understand?" Sherlock nods emphatically. "Stay still now. Let me have you like this."

And with that, John resumes his enthusiastic grinding, all whilst holding Sherlock firmly in place.

Sherlock relaxes into his touch and focuses on John's command. Though the stimulation through his panties still feels good (hell, it feels fucking _exquisite,_ but he forces the thought from his mind), having an order to follow helps him stay calm and purposeful. He must not disappoint John. He must stay in control. 

It's easier said than done. John's left hand holds Sherlock's wrists firmly in place while his free hand continues to peruse Sherlock's body at will, finally meandering up the length of Sherlock's thigh to the crease just below his buttock, where the hem of his panties rests. John's fingers gently begin to make their way under the silk, just toying with the border there, and the sensation is so delicious that Sherlock can't fight it any longer. He feels his balls draw up tight to his body and he arches and moans and--

"Oy! Out!"

Suddenly John's weight has evaporated, and he's pulling Sherlock by the wrists upright into a seated position. John reaches over Sherlock and flings the door open, then pulls him out into the pouring rain.

It takes Sherlock a moment to process that they're in front of their flat. John slams the taxi door and then fumbles with the keys but resolutely maintains his grip on the end of the belt connected to Sherlock's wrists. Sherlock realises he's allowing himself to be led like a dog on a leash, and the thought makes him feel both hot and cold all over. The sensation is... unobjectionable. He sways slightly in its wake.

After a short eternity, John finally manages to get the door open, then he's dragging Sherlock up the stairs, the tension on the belt around his wrists never slacking. Sherlock is strangely consumed with the desire to go to his knees, but they're on the bloody staircase and he's in silk stockings, so that would probably be a fucking disaster. He mentally files the thought away for later.

John all but kicks open the door to their flat and drags Sherlock across the sitting room to the table that serves as their makeshift desk; it's covered with assorted books and files, which John unceremoniously pushes to the floor without hesitation before leading Sherlock forward until his thighs touch the edge of the table. John then walks to the opposite side, belt still in hand, and guides Sherlock's wrists down until he's bent over the table, torso flat against the top with his arms extended in front of him. John makes a satisfied sound in the back of his throat before securing the belt to the slat of wood that runs between the table legs, locking Sherlock into place. He steps away.

Sherlock's heart is racing as though he's just run a marathon. He feels damp from the rain and slightly flustered and still incredibly uncomfortably turned on from their foray in the cab. He closes his eyes and wills himself to focus on the situation at hand, on interpreting what John wants from him, what John is asking of him. He breathes. He waits.

John's footsteps make their way to the corner of the room, followed by the _click_ of the lamp turning on, flooding the backs of Sherlock's eyelids with a soft, orange glow. John wants to be able to _see_ him. He holds still.

John paces. He makes his way back and forth across the sitting room four times, his steps slow and deliberate.

Finally-- _finally_ \-- Sherlock hears him approach. He comes to stand directly behind Sherlock. Then everything is still.

John's fingers appear at the hem of Sherlock's skirt. With torturous slowness, he pulls the fabric up, up, _up_ the length of Sherlock's thighs then higher yet, exposing Sherlock's silk-clad arse and garter belt in a shameless revelation.

"Oh my God." John's voice sounds low and husky with desire.

For one moment he just stands there, seemingly shellshocked. The next, his hands are on Sherlock's pert cheeks, kneading them, massaging them, spreading them apart and then pressing them back together before running his thumbs up the divide between them, pressing the silk inside. Sherlock feels suddenly unsteady in his high heels.

"Fuck it." The expression takes Sherlock completely by surprise; John sounds exasperated for some reason, but Sherlock's fairly certain he's done nothing to displease him--

The thing he knows, John's cock is slotted into his crack, John's hands pulling Sherlock's cheeks apart momentarily to let his cock sink further between them before pushing them firmly together to provide friction. Then there's four quick thrusts and John is shouting, and Sherlock can feel streaks of hot come spilling onto his lower back and arsecrack, staining his rucked-up dress and delicate panties. He moans as John debauches him.

Finally, John's orgasm wanes. John rides out the aftershocks with slow, decadent thrusts against Sherlock's arse, smearing the come into the silk with a satisfied sigh. He steps away, and Sherlock can hear him fastening his trousers.

"Stay." John's tone is firm, and Sherlock freezes, eager to comply. He scarcely breathes as he hears the sound of John's footsteps retreating down the hallway.

Moments later, John is back. He's still standing a few feet away, just observing. Finally, he speaks.

"Sweetheart?" 

Sherlock slowly opens his eyes.

John is hovering in the middle of the room with an object clutched in his hands. It takes Sherlock a moment to discern what it is.

It's his Polaroid camera.

"Sweetheart, okay?" John holds up the camera for Sherlock to take in.

Sherlock takes a deep breath. And nods.

They'd negotiated this a few weeks ago, after an incident during one of their more vanilla sexual encounters in which John had, in a fit of rather vigorous dirty talk, expressed his desire to take pictures of Sherlock being fucked so that he could wank off to images of his _insatiable arse_ whenever he pleased. Sherlock had very enthusiastically consented and implored John to take his phone and do that very thing in that very moment, but John had eventually been the voice of reason and insisted that they should probably negotiate that scenario first--preferably when they were not mid-coitus.

At the time, Sherlock had accused John of being a dreadful spoilsport, but he was later forced to admit that in the harsh light of day, when they actually had the negotiation, the prospect of having images of himself being sodomised floating about in the digital ether made him very nervous indeed. So they'd come to a compromise; photos would be permitted, but only if explicitly consented to, and they could only be taken using the old Polaroid they had lying around from a case they'd solved years ago. No digital photos, no film, no processing. And the photos would be stored in their fireproof lockbox.

And now John's taken him up on it. Christ. Sherlock is so hard from the thought he's fairly certain he could come in his panties untouched if he put his mind to it.

But he doesn't. He simply opens his mouth and speaks.

"Go ahead, John."

John moves forward slowly, as though approaching a feral animal on a wildlife safari. He positions himself standing directly behind Sherlock then aims the camera down at him, capturing the depraved state of his come-soaked panties and dress. Sherlock glances back over his shoulder, straight into the camera lens.

_Click._

The next thing Sherlock knows, John has made his way around the table and is untying the belt from the slat. 

"Come on, now, stand up."

Sherlock pushes his torso up off the table and brings himself to stand, his skirt falling back into position around his legs. He winces at the feeling of the congealing come against his arse.

"This way." John guides him by the belt down the hallway to the bedroom, where he flicks on the bedside lamp and finally unfastens Sherlocks' wrists, tossing the belt aside.

"Turn around." Sherlock turns and John lowers the zipper of his dress, letting it fall to the floor in a puddle around his feet. 

John approaches the bed and strips off the duvet, then reaches into the nightstand and pulls out the handcuffs.

"Get on the bed. Hands above your head."

Sherlock nods and goes to toe off his shoes when suddenly John's hands are on him once more. 

"No. Shoes stay on. Get on the bed."

Sherlock nods and climbs on to the bed and positions himself face-up in the centre with his hands above his head. John snaps on the handcuffs and secures them to the headboard with practiced precision, pausing only to give Sherlock's hands a brief squeeze, which he quickly returns; it's their unspoken signal that the cuffs are comfortable and not impeding blood flow.

Satisfied, John pulls back and steps away from the bed to observe.

Sherlock licks his lips and lets his legs splay open, a wanton invitation. He still hasn't come and his erection is tenting the front of his panties obscenely, and he arches his back to emphasize the padded swells in his bustier in what he can only hope is an inviting fashion. 

John's lips turn up, and his eyes darken. 

"Lovely."

With that, he grabs the camera off the nightstand and steps back before snapping another picture.

And then he leaves the room entirely.

Sherlock could have cried in disappointment and frustration. What the _hell_ did John think he was doing?

It soon becomes abundantly clear: John is making himself a sandwich and watching telly. Sherlock all but _snarls_ at the injustice of it all; he was so _hard_ and _unsatisfied_ and he just wanted to be _fucked._ He makes a few aborted thrusts into the empty air above him but it's utterly unsatisfying and only makes him feel pathetic. He moans and writhes on the sheets then quickly stops; the sensation of the silk stockings on his legs against the sheets is delightful indeed, but is only serving to ratchet up his already skyrocketing arousal. He whimpers and stills. He closes his eyes and waits.

He's not sure how long it's been before he hears John's footsteps in the hall. His eyes fly open and his head whips towards the door expectantly. John saunters in, looking relaxed and refreshed.

"Hello, sweetheart."

_"John."_ Sherlock's flagging erection has returned to full mast in record time, and he all but melts as John leans in to lavish him with a passionate kiss.

He finally pulls away and stands back to look Sherlock up and down.

"Christ, love. This is... this is really something tonight. You're so fucking gorgeous, you know that?"

Sherlock blushes and preens beneath John's gaze, pressing his chest forward, imploring John to reach out and _touch._

"These are such lovely things." John's fingers begin to delicately trace the boning in the bustier before making a light circle around where Sherlock's nipple was buried beneath layers of padding, silk, and lace. "Have you had these all along?"

"Yes, John."

"And you never showed them to me?"

"Never... never worn them like this before."

John's eyes meet Sherlock's imploringly; he seems genuinely bewildered. "What do you mean, sweetheart?"

Sherlock lips his lips and wills himself to communicate clearly. "Never... never worn them... sexually before. Just for... just for disguises. To become someone else. Never... never myself."

A soft smile spreads across John's face, and there's a light in his eyes that makes Sherlock feel warm and tingly inside. "I see. Is it alright if we leave them on tonight? Do you still feel like yourself with them on, love? Because I want to be with _you_ tonight. Only you."

Sherlock nods. "Yes, John. This is me. I'm... I'm here."

John grins. "Good. Good." He moves to climb onto the bed before taking Sherlock's right leg by the ankle and bringing it up to his lips to kiss him from ankle to knee. The sensation of John's lips against the silk makes Sherlock feel like he's about to crawl out of his own skin with desire. He moans.

John reaches down to fumble with his own trousers and then pulls out his cock, which has long since risen to full hardness once more. Slowly, almost tentatively, he shuffles forward on his knees until his cock is against the back of Sherlock's thigh, in the place where the black lace border of his stocking gives way to the milky naked flesh above. He holds Sherlock's leg in his hands and begins to thrust as he resumes kissing Sherlock's ankle and calf.

It should be strange. It should be _weird_ and _different_ and _overwhelming_ but instead it's _hot_ and _sensual_ and _so goddamn good._ Sherlock moans as John pleasures himself against him, pulling against the handcuffs in futile desperation.

All too soon, John's pulling away, lowering Sherlock's leg back to the bed then pressing both legs apart and lowering himself between them until their groins touch. He begins to move against Sherlock, moaning loudly as his naked cock glides against the silk of the panties, and Sherlock soon finds himself echoing his moans in tandem.

_"Christ, Sherlock. So good. You feel so good like this. Oh, God, sweetheart. So... so fucking good."_

The speed of John's thrusts increases and Sherlock moans and pulls his legs up to his chest, the hard heat of John's erection pressing against him from balls to shaft in long, luxurious strokes.

John's lips fall to Sherlock's neck and then make their way down to press a series of kisses along the top ridge of the bustier. As his tongue comes into contact with the forced illusion of cleavage between Sherlock's pecs, John heaves a shuddering sigh.

It's then that Sherlock knows what John wants. It's true his brain doesn't function at optimal speed when they're _unwinding_ (hell, his brain barely functions _at all_ when they're unwinding), but he'd have to be _truly_ dense to miss John's reaction to his chest in the bustier. 

But John isn't asking. And Sherlock knows why.

Because the 'breasts' in the bustier aren't Sherlock. They're female, and Sherlock is male, and while John may not consider himself gay (he still insists on 'Sherlock-sexual,' considering he's never so much as glanced at another man with any intent of desire), he would _never_ in a million years ask Sherlock to hide or compromise his gender for John's enjoyment.

But somehow, strangely, the way Sherlock feels about his chest in the bustier isn't feminine. It feels like it's still a part of his overall appearance--masculine with a hint of softness, a delicate balance of roundness to his normally razor-sharp edges.

He knows what John wants. And he doesn't mind.

"John?"

"Hmm?" John raises his eyes and pauses from where he'd been lapping at the skin of Sherlock's left pec.

"Go ahead."

"Hm?" John gives him a puzzled look.

"You can...put your cock on them. If you'd like. I don't mind."

"Oh! Oh... um, was I really that obvious?"

Sherlock grins down at him. "No. But you do forget, I am a professional when it comes to deductions."

John laughs and sits up, then becomes serious for a moment. "I... um, I... you should know, it's not that I, um, am attracted to... uh, you with... with breasts. It's just the... it's the fucking garment, Sherlock. I don't know where the hell you got this thing, but it's the sexiest goddamn corset I've ever seen in my life, and seeing it on you is doing things to me that I... I just..."

"I know, John. And I'm telling you, it's fine. It's all fine."

John nods, and the next moment he's back in Captain mode, straddling Sherlock's ribcage and gripping the headboard with his left hand before holding his rigid cock with his right and beginning to slowly, gently run it up and down the seams of the corset.

"Nnng. Oh, _God."_ John's face is the picture of ecstasy as he stares down at himself smearing precome across the stitching. "Oh, _Christ,_ sweetheart. Going to--gonna have to--"

With that, he reaches down with both hands to grab the lightly padded portions of the corset perched atop Sherlock's pecs, and presses them together to squeeze his cock between them. He begins to thrust.

"Nnngh! Oh! Yeah! Yeah!" John's face is screwed up in concentration as he fucks against the bustier with single-minded intensity.

Sherlock looks down and feels lightheaded with arousal at the sight. John's gorgeously flushed cock is offset beautifully by the black silk and lace of the bustier, and the creamy skin of Sherlock's chest heaves as he struggles to contain himself.

He tips his head back and moans, arching as John thrusts wildly against him. "Ohhhh. John. John! Mmmm, John!"

Above him, John has lost all sense of control. There's a series of grunted, desperate, "Yeahs," and then suddenly John is sitting back and jerking himself frantically and shouting obscenities until he comes, splashing all over Sherlock's chest and bustier until he's shivering and spent. Sherlock groans and closes his eyes and delights in the sensation of being at the receiving end of John's pleasure.

John stays in place for a while afterwards, gently dragging his softening cock through the puddle of come on Sherlock's sternum and spreading it across the lace at the top of the bustier, humming contentedly. 

When he's finally done, he simply swings his leg over, stands, tucks his cock back into his pants, and reaches for the camera. He turns and leans in, close enough that Sherlock can be sure he's capturing every detail of the filthy garment along with Sherlock's flushed, desirous face, and snaps a picture.

And then he's gone.

Sherlock all but screams through his teeth. He's infuriatingly hard again, his cock flushed and pulsing against the confines of the panties as his wrists strain against the unforgiving metal of the handcuffs.

He briefly considers just flipping himself over and rutting against the sheets until he comes, but then he shudders to think what his punishment would be for such a transgression; the last and only time he'd come without permission, John had forced a series of orgasms out of him with the vibrator that were so bone-achingly intense he'd cried with the overwhelming sensation of it all when John brutally fucked him afterwards. It had been wonderful but terrible at the same time, and he had no desire to repeat the experience.

So instead of coming, he forces himself to remain still. To focus on the sensations surrounding him; the decadent feel of silk and lace juxtaposed with the immodest wetness of congealing come, the warm comfort of styled leather on his feet juxtaposed with the cold bite of metal around his wrists. He feels that he is everywhere and nowhere, all and nothing at once. It's perfection.

He drifts for an indeterminate amount of time, and before he knows it, John is back at the bedside again.

There's very little ceremony to this round. John climbs onto the bed on his knees up by the pillow and frees his hardened cock. Sherlock turns his head to the side and opens his lips, and John pushes himself inside.

He fucks Sherlock's face with ruthless intensity, one hand tangled in Sherlock's hair as he forces himself in deeper until he's hitting the back of Sherlock's throat with every thrust. Sherlock moans and strains against the handcuffs but to no avail; John simply grunts and thrusts faster, using Sherlock's mouth to chase his pleasure uninhibited.

At the last possible moment, John pulls out and begins to jerk himself. Sherlock opens his mouth and blinks up at John demurely through his lashes, arching his body as enticingly as possible. John empties himself in hot stripes across Sherlock's face and down his neck, moaning and cursing under his breath before falling silent as he wipes the last drops of come from the tip of his twitching cock onto Sherlock's parted lips.

Before Sherlock can even process it, John has pulled away and grabbed the camera. He stares unflinchingly up at the lens as John snaps a picture of his debauched face. He's floating so far beyond any of it that he can't bring himself to care.

And then John-- lovely, perfect, _brilliant_ John-- is standing at Sherlock's bedside and freeing his cock from its silk prison and stroking him in firm, relentless motions, hand slick with lube, just the way Sherlock likes. He moans and plants his feet onto the bed and begins to thrust, scarcely registering the way his high heels offset his balance.

"Oh, that's it love. Look at you. So gorgeous, so _fucking_ gorgeous, God, the things you do to me, love. The things you do to me."

Sherlock moans and thrusts faster. John increases the speed of his strokes accordingly.

"Yes, _yes,_ sweetheart. Are you going to come? Are you going to come for me?"

Sherlock only manages to issue a high whine in the back of his throat.

"Alright, then. Go on. Go ahead. Come."

And with a simple flick of John's wrist, he does, spattering his garter belt and corset with thick ropes of come as his cock expends his release in pulsating waves. John works his shaft through it and uses his free hand to massage Sherlock's balls and press lightly against his perineum, prolonging his orgasm until he's left feeling utterly wrung-out and used.

John makes a little sound of approval before withdrawing his hands and turning to grab the camera. Sherlock is dimly aware that he's taking another rather extensive series of pictures, but he can't be arsed to think about it. He simply lies basking in the afterglow, letting his body take it all in.

Finally, John puts the camera down.

"Alright, love. You're all done now. Do you want me to leave you like this for a little while?"

"Yes, please, John." Sherlock adores being left to marinate in the evidence of their pleasure for a while after a session has concluded. He knows this particular proclivity still perplexes John, but John has learned to be gloriously indulgent about it. He simply bends and places a kiss on Sherlock's forehead and whispers, "I'm going to take a shower, but the key is in the cuffs if you need to get out."

Sherlock has to fight the urge to roll his eyes. He hates it when John breaks during a session to discuss something as _boring_ as safety, but he objectively knows it's important to John that Sherlock be safe in his absence. So he just hums his approval and closes his eyes, and begins to drift.

As far as drifts go, this is a lovely one. The session had been absolutely _perfect,_ just the right combination of domination and care he'd needed following that particular case. John was learning to read his moods so beautifully and tend to him so intuitively that every session felt like it was elevating them to new planes of understanding, and he basks in the contentment of feeling so perfectly aligned with another human being. It's otherworldly. It's _divine._

In what feels like an eternity and no time at all, John is back at his side, uncuffing him and helping him to sit, legs hanging off the edge of the bed as John removes his shoes and unfastens the clasps on his garters before pulling off his stockings. Then he helps Sherlock to stand, encouraging him to brace himself against the bedpost as John pulls off the garter belt and panties before engaging in an epic struggle with the lacings of the bustier (during which Sherlock is nearly shaking with suppressed laughter as John tries his mightiest to remain in "caring dom" mode while simultaneously swearing like a sailor at the offending garment). Finally, victory is at hand, and the bustier falls to the floor and Sherlock heaves in a heavy breath, fully nude and shivering in the cool night air of the bedroom.

John guides him to the bathroom and deposits him in the shower, where he quickly scrubs himself off and then gives himself a perfunctory wipe-down with a towel before staggering back into the bedroom to collapse into bed. He's vaguely aware of John pulling the duvet up over him. He's asleep before John even hits the lights.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after is filled with delightful surprises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, this chapter makes a few vague references to incidents from my "In Between" series, but it's really not necessary to have read it to get the gist.
> 
> Thanks for reading! I'm working on a few future installments at the moment, but as always, please do leave comments/requests-- they're much appreciated!

Consciousness descends upon him softly in the light of the morning. It takes Sherlock a moment to process where he is; most mornings if he's deigned to fall asleep in bed at all, he's awoken by Rosie's cries on the baby monitor or John's alarm on days when he's working at the surgery. But this morning he wakes only to sunlight and the distant hum of traffic and the smell of slightly burnt toast wafting down the hallway from the kitchen.

He stretches and takes stock of his transport. He's in reasonably good shape for having just concluded a case; he's slightly dehydrated (par for the course), his feet are a bit achy from having spent several hours in heels (predictable but annoying; how women put up with the inconvenience on a regular basis was beyond him entirely), but he seems to have no lingering side effects from his exposure to _hink,_ and their session last night hadn't included any rough play, prolonged bondage, or penetrative intercourse, so the rest of his body is in premium operating condition.

Satisfied, he rolls over onto his stomach and reaches over to retrieve his mobile from the nightstand. But instead of coming into contact with the cool smoothness of the case, his fingertips fall on something else entirely.

It's a stack of pictures.

The Polaroids from last night.

He snatches them up and hungrily flips through them, a strange sensation setting in his stomach.

Years ago, before the Fall, and before John, Sherlock hadn't given much thought to his transport and how it was perceived. He objectively knew he was considered reasonably attractive by society's arbitrary standards; the appraising glances he received from men and women alike starting when he was reaching the age of maturity was enough to clue him in to that. But he never quite understood what they saw in him; he was too pale, too lanky, too skinny, too strange. Not that he cared one way or the other--the only thing that mattered was that when he wanted sexual gratification (which was rarely), he could get it. End of story.

And then there was John. John had been a tough nut to crack; he gave Sherlock the same appraising glances he'd gotten from others, but adamantly denied his interest. John was straight, after all (Sherlock would have had to be blind to miss the way John ogled all sorts of women, not to mention the porn in his web browser history). Yet Sherlock would catch John's gaze lingering on his neck just a beat longer than could be considered incidental, his eyes would hold contact with Sherlock's long beyond what would be considered proper between two friends, and on more than one occasion, Sherlock had caught the reflection of John checking out his arse when he bent over a piece of evidence (it was hardly Sherlock's fault that the handle of his magnifying glass just happened to be reflective).

So Sherlock had taken it upon himself to entice John further; he'd taken to wandering about the flat with no shirt and a pair of low-slung pajama bottoms and, when that failed, nothing but a bedsheet. The bedsheet had solicited the reaction that he'd desired; a mere few weeks afterwards, John had finally-- _finally_ \-- kissed him. Though to this day John had insisted it was the sexual tension during their case with The Woman that finally pushed him over the edge, Sherlock suspects that the bedsheet had perhaps also been a key player.

But then Sherlock Fell and everything changed. When he'd returned, his transport had been irreversibly altered by his time spent in captivity in Serbia. His back was a tangled mess of scars, jagged and ugly, making him look more monster than man when viewed from behind. And though John took every opportunity to make sure that Sherlock knew he didn't give a damn about the scars (kissing them, licking them, calling Sherlock _gorgeous_ and _beautiful_ and _perfect_ as he fucked him from behind, running his hands over them reverently all the while as though they weren't hideously off-putting), Sherlock hated every inch of them. They made him feel weak and twisted and tainted. He'd never told John how he felt, but he knew John had noticed that Sherlock never went shirtless around the flat anymore. He'd have to be blind to miss the way Sherlock turned from John's view when he was changing his clothes in his presence. And Sherlock sure as hell didn't make a habit of walking around in only a bedsheet. John didn't need to be subjected to that.

But the photographs in Sherlock's hands tell a new story. Each snapshot is infused with a stark filter of _desire,_ the strength of which Sherlock is fairly certain he's never fully comprehended until today.

In the first photograph, he's bound and bent over the desk in the sitting room, his skirt hiked up to expose his undergarments, which are streaked with the evidence of John's release. Sherlock's face is turned back to look up into the camera, his eyes dark and smokey behind his smeared mascara, streaked from the rain. He looks sultry and provocative, every inch a pin-up, beautiful and dangerous.

The rest of the series is from the bedroom: Sherlock's chest, bound in the bustier and spattered with come, the black of the silk and lace setting off his porcelain-pale skin. His wrists, wrapped in metal, straining against the handcuffs. His legs, splayed and framing his prominent erection, his high heels dug into the soft top of the mattress as he presented himself for John's use. His face, streaked with more come, his lips parted and wanting, his eyes ravenous and full of heat. And finally, a series of the whole sordid tableau; his body relaxed and pliant on the bed, his panties pulled down to expose his spent cock, his entire form debauched and covered in evidence of their mutual pleasure, his wrists still bound but his face open and relaxed, reveling in the post-orgasmic haze.

It's breathtaking. The lot of it.

In all his years with John, Sherlock has never truly considered the _nature_ of John's desire for him. He knows it's incongruous with John's personal history and his self-identified sexual orientation. He knows John is attracted to him because he tells him so, because he _acts_ on his attraction, but until this moment, Sherlock has never really understood _how_ John desired him.

And now, he sees. In beautiful, blinding technicolor, he _sees._

Ten minutes later, Sherlock meanders into the sitting room to find John reclining in his chair reading the paper. He looks up to greet Sherlock and his eyebrows nearly raise off his forehead.

"Good m--- oh, _hello."_

"Hi, John." Sherlock stand before him wrapped in only the bedsheet, smiling roguishly.

John licks his lips and sets the paper aside. "Did...did you just wake up?"

"Mmm, a few minutes ago. I've been rather preoccupied reviewing our pictures from last night."

A grin begins to spread across John's face, his hypothesis clearly confirmed. "Is that so? And what did you think?"

"Well, the lighting could use some work, but overall I'd say the initial results were favourable enough."

John smirks. "Well, I'm sure we can arrange a follow-up shoot in the not-too-distant future."

"Good. But for now, there are much more pressing matters at hand." He unceremoniously lets the bedsheet drop to the floor and in three quick strides he's straddling John, kissing him ferociously, fumbling with John's flies to pull out his cock and begin stroking it to full hardness.

"Christ, Sherlock. What has -- _oh"_ \-- (Sherlock's teeth sink into the skin at the neckline of John's jumper, where he begins to tongue and suck a mark into the tender flesh)-- "What has gotten _into_ you?"

Sherlock abandons the love-bite and sits back slightly but continues to work John's cock with his hands. "It's not so much what's _gotten into me,_ John, it's what _didn't_ get into me last night, if you catch my meaning."

"Oh, nnnngh, Sherlock, okay, that feels lovely, but Greg's going to be here soon to take our statements. Why don't we -- _oh, FUCK_ \-- why don't we put this on hold until we can do it... do it... nnnngh, properly, once he leaves?"

"John, don't be a spoilsport, we have _plenty_ of time."

John's hands reach down to wrap around Sherlock's wrists, stilling them from their ministrations on his now-rigid cock. "Sherlock, if you want to have penetrative intercourse, that's fine. But that means we need to prep you, and we absolutely do _not_ have time for that right now."

Sherlock grins and gets back to his feet, kissing John passionately before rising to full height. "Well, luckily I just so happen to have had the foresight to take care of that. So you needn't worry, John. Just sit back and enjoy the view."

And with that he turns around so that he's facing away from John, straddles his legs, and lowers himself until his open, lubricated hole is pressed against the head of John's throbbing cock.

"Jesus _Christ,_ Sherlock."

"Little help here, John? Hold your cock steady so I can sit on it properly."

"Fuuu...." John's expletive trails off into nothingness as Sherlock impales himself on his cock in one smooth stroke, bottoming out and letting his head tip back, moaning wantonly.

"Oh, John, _yes._ That's it. That's... oh, that's rather perfect." Sherlock grips John's knees to brace himself and begins to bounce, reveling in the delightful sensation of John's throbbing member penetrating him so deeply.

John lets out a garbled sound halfway between a shout and a curse, his hands flying to Sherlock's hips to guide him as he rides John with abandon.

Sherlock arches his back and gyrates his pelvis, delighting in the noises John's been reduced to behind him. He's clearly caught up in the moment, hands tightening around Sherlock's waist enough that Sherlock suspects there may be bruises. Sherlock moans at the thought and raises himself even further off John's cock before slamming back down, increasing the depth of each stroke.

He rides John with voracious intensity for as long as he can before the sensations become too much. Between the incredible slick heat of John's generous girth pressing him open and the obscene details of every pornographic thought running through John's head that are spilling from John's mouth in an unfiltered diatribe, all too soon it's too much. Sherlock grips his own shaft and begins to stroke, shouting John's name as he fucks himself on his cock as fast and hard as he can, John drilling up into him with all his considerable strength.

Sherlock comes. He even has the presence of mind to cup his free hand over the head of his cock, catching a majority of his semen as he releases, sparing the sitting room rug, for once.

"Oh! Oh, Christ! Oh, Sherlock! Fuck! FUCK!" Behind him, John grips Sherlock's hips with renewed intensity, plants his feet firmly, and proceeds to plow up into him hard enough that Sherlock nearly bites his own tongue in surprise. Despite feeling exhausted from his own orgasm, he doubles down on his efforts, squeezing his cheeks and arse as tight as possible and using all the strength left in his thighs to continue to raise and lower himself, meeting John thrust for thrust, as John loses all semblance of propriety behind him.

"Nnngh! Nnngh! Nnnngh!" John's curses quickly devolve into sounds. Finally, he locks Sherlock into place and expends the first pulse of his release, crying out one more time before leaning forward to lave open-mouthed kisses and bites across the exposed skin of Sherlock's back. Sherlock shudders with the sensation as John continues to fill him, lips and tongue never leaving his quivering back until the last of his come has been pumped into Sherlock's eager channel.

John's lips fall away as he leans back in his chair, gasping for breath. Sherlock's thighs are trembling from exertion, and his hole flutters around John's spent member. He heaves in a few ragged sighs, steeling himself, then stands up, unseating John entirely. John whimpers as his cock wetly slips from Sherlock's arse.

Sherlock bends to retrieve the sheet from the floor, but John speaks up, his voice low and heavy with lust. "Ah, ah. Let me check you over, first."

Sherlock glances back over his shoulder and John shoots him a filthy grin. Sherlock rolls his eyes, pretending to be inconvenienced, but diligently rises to stand with his back to John, who sits up, reaches forward, and parts his cheeks to inspect his leaking hole.

He gently runs a thumb across Sherlock's rim. "Oh, yes. Yes, that's lovely. God, Sherlock. You look perfect."

A shiver runs up Sherlock's spine with John's generous praise. Perhaps he should go put in his plug and keep it in while John made him breakfast, then afterwards they could--

The sound of a car slowing outside snaps him out of his revery. _Shit, Lestrade,_ he'd gotten so lost in the moment he'd completely forgotten--

He spins out of John's grasp and picks up the bedsheet, which he casually wraps back around himself before turning to face John.

John looks _completely_ wrecked; his jeans and boxers are open and his now-flaccid cock is still hanging out. His jumper is twisted at an odd angle, and there's a hickey blooming at the neckline that will be nearly impossible to conceal. His face is sex-flushed and his hairline is dewey with sweat.

"John. Do get yourself decent at once."

John grins up at him lazily. "Why? You've ruined me."

Sherlock shrugs. "No reason, really. Except that the Detective Inspector is here and Mrs. Hudson opened the door for him before he even rang. They're exchanging pleasantries in the foyer right now, but I'd estimate they'll be on the stairs in eight seconds or less, and the door to the flat isn't locked--not that that's ever stopped Mrs. Hudson before."

And with a grin and wink, he disappears down the hall, leaving a scrambling John Watson in his wake.

**Author's Note:**

> I love hearing your feedback, so please do leave questions & comments below! I'm listening! (And if it strikes your fancy, I do take requests as well.)


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